The Unaccounted for Hours
by Username1.4
Summary: The movie always made it seem like Nala and Simba arrived at the Pridelands at the same time. But that can't be right. Simba left at night, and Nala left in the morning. So, for those few hours he was alone, where did Simba go?


He didn't believe it at first. He must have taken a wrong turn somewhere. But no, he was being silly. She had warned him, hadn't she? That things would be different. As much as he had changed, so had his home.

_You have forgotten me…_

How could he have? Days, months, years—every moment his father not far from mind. His father's words echoed in his mind. Was he even worthy to try and copy his father? Could scum like him even attempt to be like the Great King? Simba had never forgotten Mufasa, not one moment spent with him, not one detail about him. His whole life seemed to revolve around the old king. Every choice he made, every thought he had, all because of his father. The shame of killing Mufasa, widely known as the best king the Pridelands had ever seen… Even more than that, the shame of killing his own father… The fear of the unknown—his friends, his mother—what would they think? The warning from his uncle… it all added up. There had been no more place for him, and no one to accept him. So, he had left. He left and went somewhere far enough away that he no longer had to be the Future King. No one would know the guilt he lived with. He could maybe even forget it, if he ceased acting like the king he was meant to be.

At least, that was what he had always thought. Until now. Until the past had caught up with him.

The soil underneath his feet was bone dry and crumbled with each movement he made. Everything was a monotonous gray. It reminded him of nightmares he still sometimes had about hyenas.

_Stay low to the ground…_ and he did just so. He crept along the floor of the savannah, a sudden ache in his heart. If it weren't for him, this land would be teeming with life of all kinds. Not only had he killed his father, but he had killed entire herds, the entire ecosystem of pride rock. It was past due that Simba reap what he had sowed so many years ago.

But first…

Simba was almost too afraid to look up and allowed his paws to guide him. That stump used to be a tree, but it was still vaguely familiar enough to act as a guideline. That indent used to be a small stream. He was headed in the right direction.

_How could I forget you, father? _

The gorge seemed to be the one place time had left untouched. Still as steep, still as barren, and still as_. As a cub, it had taken Simba a few jumps and a tumble to reach the bottom of the gorge. Now, as a full-grown adult, he had to watch his step, calculate where to put his weight.

His father hadn't had that luxury when he came to save him. Maybe he had fallen from the top. The horns of a wildebeest are nothing to laugh at. Maybe his father was already dying while carrying him to safety.

Simba's father had always been the strongest lion in the land. Any who dared challenge him soon met their death. Once the Great King even fought off two lions at once who were seeking to take over the pride. They lost. The challengers always lost. Who would have thought that the only lion to beat the King, to kill him, would be his own son.

Why had he decided come here?

And there it was. His father. Or what was left of him. A bright patch of grass—the only greenery in the entirety Pridelands, as far as Simba could tell.

Simba's ears lowered, and his muscles seemed to lose strength. His body sunk lower and lower to the ground as he headed to the green patch, until he was crawling. His breath came in puffs and then—he was lying next to his father. He allowed himself to do what he had longed to do as a child.

He curled up next to his father and he wept. He wept for all the memories he shared with his father, and all the time they had. He wept for all the time they didn't have. He wept for the guilt, the sorrow that comes from ending another's life. He wept for time lost. If only he had returned home sooner, no matter his reception from the lionesses. If he had only faced this fear, if he had only been brave the one time he had to be, he finally could have made his father proud. Instead there he was. Finally being allowed to grieve for his father.

The memories of that day, the day of his father's death, were always blurred in Simba's mind. Maybe as a precaution, a way to keep himself sane. But the one part which was always crystal clear—the one moment which almost made him hate his uncle—was seconds after he had discovered his father's death.

As guilty as he was, and is, Simba was simply a cub back then. Just a cub who needed time to cling to the last bit of warmth in his father's body. Just a cub who needed to breathe in his father's scent, to commit it to memory. Just a cub who needed, for the last time, to feel his father's reassuring paw over him. Instead what he got was a chilling awakening by his uncle. Seconds after realizing the fate of his father, his uncle had pulled the young cub away, had sent his nephew away to a life of exile.

So, finally, after all those years—Simba had come to reclaim what was his. More than the throne. He came to reclaim those last few moments with his father.

He turned around to face the grass. His tears wet the grass, and the tips of the blades tickled his nose, but he couldn't care less. If Scar was left in charge for too much longer, this grass would die. Simba's father would die. Again.

_Father…_

Simba would fight. He would protect what his father stood for, what his father loved.

_I won't be able to survive if it happens again…_

Simba would keep alive the memory of his father, keep alive his remaining family. He would do whatever it took, sacrifice whatever necessary. He just couldn't handle another loss like that of Mufasa. He would die to make sure that everyone he cared for lived. He would protect Pride Rock, protect the Pridelands. He would protect his father's memory.

…_**don't leave me…**_


End file.
